Dead Boys Don't Bleed
by SolipsisticFury
Summary: What does it mean to be at war with yourself? Hisoka doesn't like to be touched. But does that mean he doesn't want to touch back?


Hisoka had very little patience for life's minutiae. He maintained that living should be efficient and tidy; that there was very little room for mucking about with unnecessary details, and as such, most of what everyone around him considered as essential elements of existence was in need of some rather judicious pruning.

This included dreaming.

After all, dreaming was a useless pastime. He thought it was a particularly absurd waste of sleep, and it usually made Hisoka feel dirty and as if everything was spinning out of his control. It made him feel like his subconscious had been usurped, as if his thoughts were suddenly exposed to all manner of indecipherable enemies; ephemeral, creeping things, creatures that faded away just as easily as they could slither in. But sometimes he thought that maybe they weren't creatures at all. That maybe, they were just memories; sticky, eerie memories that should be full of blood, but were only ever full of cherry blossoms; their scent heavy and cloying in a too-dark night from a time that should have faded from memory so very long ago.

No, he would never understand the people who liked to dream.

Tsuzuki said he liked to do it

Of course, he didn't understand Tsuzuki either.

When they slept in the same room during missions, he would watch Tsuzuki sleep. He told himself firmly that he looked because he wanted to understand what the older man liked so much about dreaming; why he seemed eager to lapse into sleep at night, even fully aware of what was to come. Hisoka knew that not all of Tsuzuki's dreams were pleasant, but that never seemed to stem the torrent of quietly expectant joy that rolled off the man in unassuming ripples just before he slipped long legs under sheets and blankets and nestled contentedly.

For the most part, Tsuzuki liked to sleep on his side, with his legs curled just slightly inwards and his arms tucked child-like against the broad lines of his chest. Sometimes, he'd fling an arm upwards to rest just above his head, but for the most part, he liked to keep his sprawling limbs close. Even his movements in sleep were compact; small jerks and shudders alongside an occasional murmur or smile. Hisoka was always fascinated by the way Tsuzuki's hands seemed to persistently flutter in and out of gentle fists. Tsuzuki was an incongruous sleeper.

And he usually fell asleep wearing his tie.

Sometimes Hisoka would sit on the edge of Tsuzuki's bed to watch. When he invariably woke from his own dreams, from his own nightmares, he'd let mutinous footsteps take him over to Tsuzuki's bed. His muted shuffling a quiet reminder of where he knew he really shouldn't be. But somehow, the threat of impropriety never stopped him.

He knew that Tsuzuki was a heavy sleeper, slightly restless, but still heavy. He wouldn't wake up; even when Hisoka's slight weight fell with an incriminating thump against whatever tacky hotel comforter was pulled up around Tsuzuki's body. Even when he leaned down to consider Tsuzuki's little hitching breaths, those beguiling amethyst eyes would remain intractably shut.

_I think I'm a little bit in love with you. _

Every now and again the thought would drift through his mind, stubbornly clinging to his synapses like wet cotton. It would remain, even as he shook his head to dismiss the irrational notion from any further contemplation. It was impractical. It was dangerous.

It was wanted.

On most nights, Hisoka was content with merely observing. He didn't need to feel the warm brush that was Tsuzuki's breath across his cheek. He didn't need to reach a hand across the gap between them, and let it hover uncertainly before finally drawing back in defeat. He didn't need to curl up next to Tsuzuki in a distorted mirror image of the taller man's sleeping pose. The looking was enough.

But on some nights, on the nights when he woke up wondering why he wasn't covered in his own blood or screaming himself hoarse, it just wasn't enough. Then he would have to reach, and wonder. He would have to let his hands linger over Tsuzuki's body in an aborted caress and hate himself for being so afraid, and for wanting to touch, but understanding that he would never quite be capable of letting his hands fall.

Sometimes, he thought that this was where Tsuzuki was supposed to wake up. He was supposed to wake up and say, "I know. It's okay." He was supposed to take the decision away, and close the distance between them. This was where he was supposed to wrap only slightly gangly arms around Hisoka's small frame, and drive away all the lingering doubts reverberating in his head. This was where he was supposed to let someone touch him.

But Hisoka didn't believe in supposed to anymore.


End file.
